She was the Fata Morgana, Queen Mother of the World, and had built herself a love slave to assuage the lonely days. A handsome piece of work if she did say so herself: wide of shoulder, slim of waist, courteous, considerate, quick to restoke and deferential even when spent, a comely dream of passion fit to set mortal pulses pounding no less than hers. Not human and yet not of the gods, his discretion was guaranteed for at night she simply turned him off. But it was too easy. A household appliance, one would have hoped for more in a lover.